


Worn at the Seams

by MoanDiary



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg has always loved unraveling sweaters and pulling at rips and tears. With Cas and his coat, it's no different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worn at the Seams

**Author's Note:**

> Needed to write some legit Cas/Meg porn after the little hors d'oeuvre of my previous story. I was initially going to do something wrapped up in the season 6 storyline, but I was wary of mis-predicting how the last few episodes were going to go. So instead I wrote some pretty straightforward smut with only slight (mostly thematic) references to the events of season 6.

Castiel's lips are hard against hers and his fingers are brutal. Bruises bloom across her skin in their wake. Meg observes the tiny blood vessels rupturing with the clinical distance of someone whose body is not her own. His overeager fingers tangle in her hair and pull, hard. She lets him jerk her head back and attack her neck with his mouth, her hands clenched in the fabric of his trench coat. It's fraying at the seams, bears the marks of careless overuse. Just like him.

She gives the shoulder panel a jerk and it tears loudly. Her cheeks dimple in a satisfied smile even as he rears back to glare at her and then slams her bodily into the wall. The impact dazes her for a moment.

"A little touchy about the coat, Clarence?" She teases breathlessly.

She can hardly recover before he's on her again, groping her tits through her shirt like he doesn't know what else to do, pressing his crotch ineffectually into her hip. He emits a little frustrated grunt, burying his face in the crook of her neck and thrusting forward, searching in vain for friction for long moments that would be embarrassing to most human men. Meg is even a little embarrassed for him.

He pulls back, and with the look in his eyes, she thinks for a moment that he's going to hit her. She even braces herself and composes her meat suit's face into a familiar expression of smug defiance. But after a long moment, his eyes flicker downwards in resignation.

"Please," he says quietly.

"What was that?" She shoots back gleefully.

"Please," he repeats, his voice raw. "Show me how."

"Aye-aye, Your Holiness."

In the blink of an eye, her hands are making short work of the fly of his pants, drawing his rigid cock out into the light of day. _Poor little guy_ , she thinks. _Wonder how long he's been holed up in there._

He makes a strangled "hmm" noise and braces his hands against the wall on either side of her head as she gives him a few experimental pulls. His eyes are squeezed shut and he seems to be hardly even aware of her presence as she jacks him. 

_Dull, dull dull_. She hums a couple bars of "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad" in time with the movement of her hand and his eyes crack open to give her an incredulous look. She can swear there's the very smallest hint of a smile in there somewhere.

"Am I boring you?"

"No, by all means. You enjoy yourself." She loads enough facetiousness into her words that even a terminally clueless angel such as himself couldn't misinterpret them.

"I think I can do that," he growls. Suddenly aggressive again, he pushes her down onto the moth-eaten carpet of the abandoned house and sets those articulate, violent hands of his to yanking her pants down her legs and off over her feet.

"Clarence!" She coos appreciatively, deciding to be helpful and rid herself of her jacket and shirt. Castiel sits back on his heels and watches her, his dick sticking a little absurdly out from his pants. When she's down to her underwear, he reaches towards her again, moving to take off her bra, his too-blue-to-be-true eyes glowing with excitement.

"Nuh-uh-uh," she says, catching his hand. "I will if you will."

He pulls his hand out of hers and sighs with annoyance. She blinks and suddenly his clothes are gone. In the next second he's fumbling with the front clasp on her bra. She uses his difficulty as an opportunity to run her hands up his slim, wiry arms, tracing invisible swirls and shapes across his skin. His fingers pause and his mouth falls open a little, his eyes darting up from the bra to her face. They look at each other, motionless, for a long moment as something changes subtly in the air.

She slides one hand up to the back of his neck and pulls him down into a kiss, deftly unclasping her bra with her other hand. It's hot and slow and deep, and she uses every ounce of her expertise. Castiel lets her draw him down with her onto the floor, and she can feel him relaxing into her for the first time. She cradles his hips between her spread thighs and works her hands down his back, alternately caressing and digging her fingernails into his skin. When she reaches his ass, his mouth jerks away from hers and he inhales sharply, pressing his leaking erection up towards her cunt.

When he encounters her panties he makes a curiously childlike noise of disappointment and she can't help but laugh as she reaches down and rips them off. Demonic strength sometimes has its uses. 

She lays back again and looks at him expectantly as he hovers over her, braced on his forearms. His eyes are wide and nervous, and he glances downward as if not sure how to proceed. With a roll of her eyes, Meg reaches down and unceremoniously pushes him into her. Jimmy's muscle memory quickly takes over and Castiel thrusts into her the rest of the way.

She makes a satisfied noise deep in her throat, shifting and rolling her hips, and watches expressions chase fluidly across his face. Eventually his hips pull away and thrust back in, and the motion drives a stuttering "Ah-ahhh" from his throat in a hot burst of breath. Meg bites back a scathing comment about virgins that she soon forgets when he starts to thrust again.

His pace is uneven and a little faster than would be ideal, but goddamn if it doesn't feel better than anything else in recent memory. She brings her legs up and wraps them around his waist, the change of angle making him drive into her just how she likes it. 

The sight of Castiel's face as he rapidly loses what little composure he has left is just as gratifying as the physical sensations. His eyebrows push inward into deep furrows and his mouth falls open to let out rhythmic panting. As his pace increases, the pants fill out into grunts and Meg is suddenly aware that she's getting close, too. It's strange--in the midst of her contemplation of him, she'd almost completely forgotten about her own pleasure.

_Better late than never,_ she thinks, thumbing her clit vigorously. She and Castiel come in a syncopated one-two, not quite in sync but pretty damn close. Her hips arch up off the floor and he jerks hard against her, shouting something wordless as he fills her, hot and wet.

They collapse in a sweaty heap of borrowed bodies. Meg doesn't mind his dead weight, or the sensation of his softening dick half-slipped out of her. It's a nice indicator of how wonderfully she succeeded at dragging Mr. All-Holy and Perfect down to her level. Where were the haughty dignity and the grimly compressed lips and the clenched fists and the blazing heavenly light now, hm? 

After a while, he finally manages to prop himself up on his elbows and look down at her, his hair even more disheveled than usual, his lips swollen, and his eyes hooded and dazed. He seems almost--maybe--on the verge of smiling. But at the sight of the smug grin on her face, his expression hardens. His clothes are back on before he even reaches his feet. He deliberately averts his eyes from her recumbent form, his jaw clenching and his eyes impassive.

Meg props her head up on her arm and chuckles a little. "Back to business, eh, Clarence?" 

He ignores her. "Thank you, that was…illuminating," he grinds out flatly. 

She expects him to disappear then, but he lingers indecisively, his eyes darting between her and the wall. She rises languidly to her feet and approaches him from behind. When she runs her hand down his arm, he flinches away at first, but she persists, clasping his shoulder firmly. She leans in close to his ear and whispers "Say 'hi' to Crowley for me."

His eyes meet hers for a split second, dark and apprehensive, before he's gone. She couldn't help but notice that his trench coat is still torn in the back. That ragged old thing. It wasn't built to stand up to his kind of life. It was made for church and important business meetings--funerals, maybe--mild rain showers at worst. Made to be worn over a man's Sunday best. It was supposed to be special, respected, carefully dry-cleaned at the faintest sign of a stain.

She can't wait to watch it fall apart.


End file.
